I've Stared Down the Barrel of a Gun
by harmless sociopath
Summary: To attract his attention she had lead him into a dangerous game, a game in which they turned out to be merely pawns.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is a bit different from my other stories, mainly because of the writing style. There will be a change of narrator about halfway through, but that shouldn't be too confusing. A second part is in the making and I'll be uploading it, I don't know when, but I will.**

**And a huge shoutout for Lika2, who gave me the initial idea to write this story.**

* * *

Adrenaline was the drug Irene Adler just couldn't quit.

Whether it was the idea of dominating people or the thrill of being chased by men who wanted to blow her brains out, she just couldn't get enough of the feeling of liquid danger running through her veins.

After her "death" she had been bored. That had changed quickly when Sherlock Holmes had come into the picture once again. They had both been dead, wiped off the map, and because she was already quite experienced with playing dead, she had agreed to give him shelter for some time.

She was one of the few people who would understand Sherlock Holmes when he declared to be "bored" while shooting a wall.

Doing nothing out of the ordinary was boring.

Not running a riding crop down the welts on somebody's back was boring.

Not making people beg for mercy was boring.

Not having to run from people was boring.

Hell, not being shot at was boring.

Irene had known she had to get herself into a dangerous situation somehow. Without the chemical thrill of controlling people her life had been downright boring and unchallenging, it almost felt as though she had died after all.

And naturally it was her, Irene Adler, who had managed to track down Sebastian Moran - late Jim Moriarty's hit man. He had been the second most dangerous man in London when Moriarty was still alive, and had swiftly become the most dangerous man when Moriarty had put a bullet in his own brain at the rooftop of St Barts Hospital.

She had never really meant anything to Jim Moriarty, or at least not enough to be "taken care of" by him or any of his acquaintances. He had been smart enough to know that there would be multiple other people standing in line to kill her. He didn't have to get his hands dirty on a fallen dominatrix whose head would show up separated from her body sooner or later.

This is why she had felt the need to prove that she _could_ have been of importance to him, if only he had looked well enough and hadn't underestimated her. Even though he was no longer a threat to any of the innocent citizens of London or any other city, she had still found it necessary get after Moran, to prove that she was right.

Irene wouldn't admit it if someone asked her, but she had done it for Sherlock, too. Getting into danger, that is, not tracking down Moran. No, she had done it because she knew Sherlock could get as bored as she could, or even worse. She just didn't want him to fall into a slumber with the danger of him resorting to drugs to ease his mind.

She knew Sherlock wasn't able to get any relief from sex or anything related. She had suggested this method multiple times, but much to her annoyance as well as amusement he had turned her down time after time. And that had lead to her getting involved in a power play once again, in order to stimulate Sherlock, to please him, to please herself, too. She saw it as the most interesting idea of playing with him and that brilliant mind of his outside the bedroom.

For her it was only logical to attract his attention by getting into danger, leading him into a dangerous game. But she had been mistaken to think that in this game she represented the white queen and Sherlock the white king. They were just pawns in a game that, if gone wrong, would always be won by the black side of the board.

And the game _had _gone wrong, but at least they hadn't been bored anymore.

She had left Sherlock multiple clues, and he had visibly enjoyed her attempts to stimulate his mind. Bit by bit she had started to reveal her plans, until the curtain dropped all of a sudden, hiding all the clues. Yet Sherlock had gotten his hands on enough evidence to figure out where she had gone and why.

It had been her own fault. The taste of danger had been too sweet, and once again she had been enjoying herself too much. She had gotten too close to the edge, until she had toppled over and fallen in a bottomless pit.

She had fallen into the hands of Moran himself while breaking into a warehouse on the docks. Sherlock knew she could work a gun and was still physically strong, but that wouldn't be enough to survive this time.

She had burnt herself, desperately trying to get closer to the heat of the game.

And he was going to get burnt too.

At first he had doubts about trying to save her, but then he started to remember vividly what he had felt like the last time he had been under the impression that she was dead. It was not something he'd want to go through again, knowing that she wouldn't get a third chance. Even Irene Adler only had so many lives.

He realized it had never been her intention to actually get into Moran's trap. Of course it hadn't. All she'd wanted to do was show that she could be of any importance, but Moran was probably laughing at her futile attempts to put an end to what he was doing.

Eventually, Sherlock decided that he just couldn't let her die. Again.

She was The Woman, after all.

She had left enough breadcrumbs on her path for him to find her, and they had been subtle enough for anybody else to miss, and he was still aware of the possibility that this could be a trap. He wasn't too happy about the prospect of them both dying, but if there was a chance of them getting out of this alive, he was willing to throw himself into the danger zone as well.

And so he did.

* * *

The air in the warehouse was surprisingly hot and humid, but the floor was dirty and there were traces of footprints in the dust. Sherlock followed the traces, carefully moving in between piles of cardboard boxes, trying not to make a sound. He was holding a gun in his hands, his knuckles white, his entire mind alert, his heart pounding because of the adrenaline. He stopped after every couple of steps, listening carefully, but there was nothing to be heard apart from his own breathing.

From the smell he could tell there were books in the boxes, and he thought it was strange to leave the books in a humid environment such as this. But then, this warehouse was only a cover up for a dangerous criminal organization, and he doubted criminals such as Moran actually cared about books at all. The books had to be a cover up for something different, something that was much less legal and had to stay under the radar.

He was fairly sure he knew where they were holding Irene, and knowing the people he was dealing with she'd be in a terrible state, both physically and mentally, even though they had only just taken her. She couldn't have been there for more than twenty minutes, and the criminals were probably expecting him, knowing that he had saved her life before and that the taste of danger was too sweet for him to resist as well. Irene Adler didn't have anything they wanted, apart from her life, but his own life was probably more valuable to them.

A sudden, strange sound startled him, and he pointed the gun right at a scrawny cat that was holding a dead mouse. Sherlock ignored the animal and returned to his mission of making his way to the office part of the warehouse.

There was no light on in the entire building, which made it harder for him to locate the exact spot he had to go to, but this was not the most difficult and challenging part of the "mission."

He had found his way to the small offices at the end of the warehouse, and he squinted his eyes. This was almost too easy. This couldn't be good. If something was too easy, it was always too good to be true, without exceptions.

His hosts had been expecting him, obviously, otherwise they wouldn't have let him get this far. He carelessly shot the lock of each of the doors, and he could hear voices rise from the other side of the building. It would be a matter of minutes before they got to him. As long as they got him, it would be alright. They wouldn't need her anymore, at least, that was his reasoning, which was correct most of the time.

As it'd turn out, this was one of the very rare times when Sherlock Holmes was wrong about something.

When he entered the room, he could only spot the reflection of her eyes in the darkness. Her hand and feet had been tied up and she was sitting in the corner of the room. From her shape he could tell that her hair was loose and her body bent, and she winced as the light from the entrance shone upon her figure. She was in pain, probably had a severe headache from any kind of sedative they had given her, and she was breathing ragged breaths. Sherlock figured this was mainly because of the temperature in the room, which was even higher than the main temperature in the warehouse, since the room seemed to have the worst ventilation in history. The oxygen in the room had been quite scarce until he opened the door.

"Took you long enough," Irene said, her voice raspy, but containing an almost too sarcastic tone for this situation.

"Don't get your hopes up," Sherlock said, "they know I'm here."

"Obviously. You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes. Who _shoots_ a lock in a situation like this?"

"I do," Sherlock deadpanned, "they knew I'd be here anyway. Getting in was too easy. I think they were expecting you too."

"That's right," a grave, masculine voice behind Sherlock said.

A click in his ears made him stand still in his place, and he felt something pressing against his neck. The material was cool and sharp, and he instantly recognized it as a loaded 9 mm gun.

"Don't move," the same voice said, and after another, slightly different click the lights in the room went on. Irene winced and blinked, and Sherlock looked at her figure. She looked so tiny and fragile like this, as though she was a porcelain doll. A porcelain doll with a gash on her cheekbone and one in her eyebrow that had only just stopped bleeding. The traces of blood made her face look slightly grotesque.

Even though she was weak, he knew she was still more than willing to fight. She'd do anything to survive this, but her chances weren't very high, _their_ chances weren't very high.

The gears in Sherlock's head had started turning, and he realized the situation they were in. This was, as John would say, a bit not good.

_Ex-soldier turned hit man, has had years of combat training, not an easy person to beat, as he knows never to underestimate his adversary and knows to anticipate his enemy's every move._

_Not afraid to shoot strangers._

Although Sherlock knew he probably wasn't a stranger to this man.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said. The man who once had a gun aimed at his best friend was holding a gun against his head right there and then.

"Very good, did you figure that out all by yourself or did you have help from Miss Adler here?" The man said, a certain cynicism in his voice.

"You really do give her too much credit," Sherlock replied, narrowing his gaze, "if you really wanted her dead, why isn't she lying on the ground with a bullet through her head already? Did you want to use her as bait, because you knew I would be the only person with the ability to find her? You went through all this so you could trap me, and then kill me? For a former mastermind's right hand your plans are quite see-through. Well, you have me, you can let her go, I rightfully believe she doesn't mean anything to you."

"That does imply she does mean at least _something_ to you. And, I have to correct you there, Mister Holmes, I believe you've misunderstood the plan," Moran replied, and Sherlock could almost see him shaking his head, "it's not quite that easy. I don't want you dead. Yet. I do, however, need to get rid of this woman, but I need somebody else to do the dirty job for me."

"You're holding a fully loaded gun to my head, surely you could've shot her yourself."

Moran snorted audibly, "you brought your own gun, which makes this a lot easier than I would've thought. The calculation is simple. The police might be able to trace back the bullet from this weapon to my gun and therefore to me, so that's why we're using _your_ gun. Or rather, _you_ are using your gun."

"Are you asking me-"

"Oh, I'm not asking you anything, Mister Holmes. I'm _ordering_ you," the hit man laughed contented, "you're going to shoot Miss Adler in the head."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock didn't shift, and although he was basically overflowing with adrenaline. This usually eased his thought process, but the fact that he had a gun pressed against the back of his head didn't do his brainwork any good.

Moran continued, "I'll be here to ensure you don't miss. Her death is inevitable. If you decide to miss I'll take the risk and shoot her myself, and I'll shoot you in the kneecaps. I don't want you dead yet, I just want _her_ gone and erased forever and I want you to live with the burden of being the one to kill her. Oh, before I forget to mention, if you do decide not to shoot her, it will also mean the end of a certain _John Watson_."

The sudden mention of that name visibly hit Sherlock. A repressed kind of panic appeared in his eyes, even though his posture remained perfectly still. The hand in which he was holding the gun didn't start shaking, as though he was putting all his effort in keeping his hand still. The adrenaline in his body was almost making him numb, but he had to try to keep his head clear. He just couldn't afford to lose control.

There was an unexpressed violence and hatred in his physical posture. That one sentence had reminded him of a different place, to what seemed to be a different lifetime, but with the same threat to John Watson's life.

Irene stared at him, her eyes finding Sherlock's. There was a short contact between their gazes that only lasted two seconds before Irene looked away swiftly. It was as though her gaze fixed on a certain spot behind the two men in front of her, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure as the room, despite the light, remained slightly dark.

Unspoken words told him that there's something Irene wasn't telling him. Had she set him up? Was this all a joke to her? She didn't seem frightened in the least. She was just sitting there, staring at him, and apart from her terrible physical state, she seemed quite alright.

"May I talk to her?" Sherlock asked.

"That's good, you talk to her. Makes it easier to remember how you spoke to her just before you shot her, I'd _imagine_. Two minutes, that's all you get. I'm not leaving. I know what you're both capable of. No tricks," Moran said, and he shifted the gun slightly, the cool metal pressing into Sherlock's neck uncomfortably.

"I believe I'm not in a position to do so," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Don't even try," Moran said through his teeth, "well, rainman, talk to her. Make sure to cherish the moment because she'll be gone after those two minutes. If you want to confess your undying love for each other, now is the moment."

Sherlock repressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Irene," Sherlock said, but she interrupted him.

"You won't save me this time," she said, her voice steady, but it seemed too forced, it's as though she had to put so much effort in sounding collected. Sherlock realized he had been wrong, that she wasn't faking anything, and that she was probably on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Or wasn't she?

"You don't seem very afraid," he said, keeping his voice down.

"Because I won't have to deal with it anymore once I'm dead here on the floor, and that's why I'm trying to stay calm here, _it's more me_, and it helps that I've stared down the barrel of a gun before," she replied, and Sherlock could see the ghost of a smile on her face.

"But it was never me holding the gun," he replied sternly, not showing that her choice of words surprised him slightly, she was choosing them too carefully. The words lingered in the back of his mind, not ready to delete them yet.

"I guess there's a first…_time_ for everything," she said, and all of a sudden her previously cool exterior crumbled down, her voice breaking, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Please," she whispered, a couple of tears streaming down her wounded cheek, the saltiness stinging in the nasty gash, "just get it over with already. Shoot me, save John, I know how much he means to you. Moran isn't bluffing, if you refuse to shoot me, John's death is only a matter of minutes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes because the change in her behavior was so sudden that it didn't seem to make sense, but it might as well have been the situation and the adrenaline. After all, she had shed a few tears when she was about to be killed in Karachi.

But she hadn't _begged_ anyone. She had known that it was her fate to be killed back then, and now she was staring at the same fate and she was reacting completely different. She hadn't changed that much, she was still the same person, just with more life experience.

Something was up. Did she have a plan in mind? Her mind was a brilliant one, despite it being used for the wrong purposes.

"My time isn't up yet," Sherlock said, and his eyes widened slightly, his mind going into overdrive.

_Time._

And one by one the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place.

There's a first…_time _for everything_._ The way she had emphasized the word "time" seemed so poignant to him. She was trying to _buy time_. But for what? Did this mean there was still a chance of them getting out of this alive?

Sherlock closed his eyes for a short moment, allowing his brains to work at full speed without all the visual impulses from outside.

_Once I'm dead here on the floor._

He shook his head, this not being the right dialogue he had been looking for. The cold metal against the flesh of his neck was trying to make him snap back to reality, but he didn't give in.

_It's more me_.

That phrase. She had used that before and he remembered it vividly. His mind flashed back to the night in Mycroft's office, the night he had made her walls crumble down, the night he sentenced her to death.

_Explosives. It's more me._

His eyes opened, immediately finding hers and she knew that he had realized what her secret was. They had managed to save each other's life through non-verbal communication before, and this time it wouldn't be any different. If only he knew how much time he had left.

"How much time do I have left?" he said quickly, trying to make it sound like he was directing his question at the hit man behind him. Sherlock pretended to start losing his cool, knowing that Moran would suspect something if he communicated with Irene once more.

"Ten seconds," Moran replied, but Sherlock ignored him, focusing on Irene's reaction.

Although her eyes were red and most definitely hurting, she blinked through the tears. Twice.

_Two minutes. We need two more minutes before this place blows up. If we're very lucky she's miscalculated and everything will go down before that time. Including us, but that's just collateral damage. But knowing Irene, her calculation must've been immaculate. If only they had two more minutes._

"Sir?" A dark male voice called out from behind Sherlock.

"What?" Moran replied brusquely, not moving, simply yelling into Sherlock's ear, "I told you not to interrupt me while I'm dealing with our _guests_."

"Sorry sir, but there seems to be a problem with the thermostat. The temperature is getting too high, part of the err, _cargo_ is melting."

"I'll deal with that later, get the fuck out," Moran hissed, and Sherlock sensed he was tightening his grip to the gun.

"Well, time's up, Mister Holmes," Moran continued, "I want you to look into her shiny blue eyes as you point your gun and shoot her. NOW. I'm not a very patient man today."

Sherlock pointed his gun at Irene, who almost seemed to beg him with her eyes. He knew that if he shot her at that moment, everything she had worked for would be futile, but if she died, she wouldn't get hurt by any of her failed plans.

She'd be dead.

And he'd still be alive.

"_Please, we still have time. It was just a game,_" she seemed to plea him, genuine tears in her eyes, "_if you shoot me we'll never be able to play again, wouldn't that be a shame?"_

Sherlock's finger curled around the trigger. He was so close to shooting her, and he had wished it wouldn't have come to this. He thought about John, and what would happen to him if Irene didn't die here and now. The choice was almost too easy. He would always chose John, if he could save one person it was always better than not saving any at all. His time was up, and there probably wasn't even an actual bomb, and yet he knew he was going to regret whatever decision he made.

Sherlock was only a second away from firing the gun.

Then he was proved wrong for the second time that day.

There was a bomb after all.

And it was going off.

Everything faded to black as the shockwave and debris hit them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys! Thank you for being patient enough to wait for this chapter, and thank you all for your lovely reviews! This chapter is going into a very unexpected direction, even for me. I had not expected to write any of this when I started it, and I hope you like it.**

**There is going to be a fourth chapter, but please be patient as I'm still in the middle of my exams.**

* * *

_Deafening silence._

_People yelling. Sirens. More people. Hurried footsteps. Then nothing._

_Just a black cloud inside his head._

Pain.

It was the first and quite frankly only thing he could feel when the darkness of his clouded mind had finally started to fade. He sucked fresh air into his lungs, but quickly regretted this as he felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He focused and calculated that he had broken at least three of his ribs, and he knew this weren't the only fractures his body had suffered. He was certain his left arm had been severely damaged, fractured in at least two places. It was going to be a long and boring process to heal.

At least he wasn't lying on a concrete floor, buried underneath the walls and ceiling of the warehouse. Even with his eyes closed he realized he was inside a building, lying in a bed and the lingering smell of disinfectant told him he was in a hospital, albeit not a very crowded one since no sounds from outside the room made their way into his ears. There were no visitors, just a couple of nurses walking down the hallway with the characteristic squeaking noises of the soles of their shoes.

He opened his eyes and blinked against the bright light, and a sudden wave of nausea hit him. He had expected the concussion, but he hadn't expected it to be this bad. His head hurt and he had to lie perfectly still for the nausea to subside.

Despite his concussion and physical state, he tried to keep his eyes open in order to observe his surroundings. He was lying in a white, pristine hospital bed. The walls were immaculate, almost terrifyingly clean. On his left hand side was a small window from which he had an excellent view of the hospital's parking lot. He looked at the long shadows of the cars and trees, and realized that at least twenty hours had passed since the explosion. He had been unconscious for quite a few hours, but not longer than a day.

He got slightly frustrated because he couldn't find out any other details, such as which hospital he was in. He knew every bloody hospital in the entire city, but it was as though that chamber in his mind was locked and the key was lost. He blamed the pain in his head that became gradually stronger as he turned his head to observe the room.

Sherlock realized that with an explosion this powerful he was lucky to be alive, even if alive meant slightly damaged, but it was nothing they couldn't fix. He briefly wondered if he was the only one who had survived the blast, wondered how many victims there were, and how much of the horribly dismembered casualties they would show on the news.

He wondered if the media would speak about a gas leak once again, to cover up the state of affairs.

He wondered if Irene Adler would smile as she stared down at the view of the destruction she had caused.

_If she's still alive._

He swallowed as realization hit him.

Irene was the only person who mattered when it came to survival of the explosion. Apart from him of course, but he was still alive.

He couldn't help but feel a sudden guilt press upon him as he thought of her possible death. He had had to deal with the idea of her death before, and even though he didn't want the feeling of guilt to get the upper hand in his mind, he couldn't help it. He once again blamed his weak physical state for letting his thoughts wander off.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Big lot of use that advice was now.

Sherlock frowned and immediately winced as his head protested.

There were no elements in the room that could tell him if anyone had gone in or out in the past couple of hours. There was one chair in the corner of the room, but the lack of indent in the seat told him no one had used it in the past couple of hours. There were no traces of anyone visiting, no one he knew, and not even a nurse. The smell covered everything and reminded him of formaldehyde, and his brains made the connection with the morgue.

He just didn't want to have to identify her body on a slab. Again.

Sherlock genuinely didn't know whether she was still alive or not, and the uncertainly was unsettling him.

He felt the sudden need for a cigarette.

His body, exhausted with the damage it had borne, felt that the best thing to do was doze off in a dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was dark outside when he woke up again, and the curtains had been closed. At least his headache and the nausea had subsided for the biggest part.

He noticed that the lamp on the ceiling of his room was on.

The light shone right upon the shape of Irene Adler.

She had pulled up the chair next to his bed, and the novel she had brought lay upside down on her lap, forgotten, the storyline forsaken. She was staring at the wall in front of her, the light of the lamp casting ghastly shadows all over the plastered wall.

Sherlock allowed himself to smile in relief, but he made sure that she didn't see this reaction.

He could see that her left wrist was enveloped in a cast, but apart from her broken wrist and the bruises and scratches she had already gotten before the explosion she looked relatively unharmed. The stitches that kept together the gash on her cheek made it look like she was a martial arts fighter of sorts.

It was not completely a strange assumption. She was a fighter, after all, but more in the metaphorical sense of the word.

Sherlock hated metaphors.

Irene was looking rather exhausted, dark circles around her eyes, and she had obviously gotten a shower not too long before she decided to come down to his room. She had left her damp hair down, making her look younger than whenever she was wearing her infamous hairdo. Her face looked slightly empty without make up, too.

"You're here because they won't ask any questions," she told him without looking up from the wall.

"Questions such as 'why are there dead people using our medical services?'" Sherlock said, and Irene looked down at him, a hint of a smile on her face.

"You look terrible," she said. Sherlock didn't reply. He had expected a similar remark already. They both stayed silent, the only sound inside the room being their breathing.

"Guess I was lucky then," Irene said, picking up the forgotten novel off her lap and rubbing her eyes with her right hand, wincing slightly since both her eyes slowed traces of blue and purple.

"There's no such thing as luck. You knew how powerful the destruction would be and which walls would be hit. You had planned all this," Sherlock said.

"You really think I'm that clever? I'm flattered," Irene smiled, her smile missing something of its power without her bright red lipstick, "let's say I was at the right spot at the right time. Relatively speaking, of course. I could've caught the shards of the door like Moran's assistant did. I believe they found his guts ten feet away from his body."

"What about Moran?" Sherlock asked, and even though she tried to, Irene couldn't hide the sudden change in her demeanor. An unexpected rush of adrenaline made his heart rate speed up, panicking for a tenth of a second, then realizing that, even if Moran had survived, he wouldn't be in a physical state to run.

"He survived, but only barely. I happen to know that the lower half of his leg got stuck under a heavy piece of plaster, and I believe he won't ever be able to use his leg again."

Sherlock sighed. They hadn't gotten rid of Moran completely. Many members of the organization had died in the explosion, but there would still be people active underground. If they wanted to take down the entire organization, they'd have to pull out the roots in order to get to the top eventually. Their lives weren't safe, and neither was John's, even if his former flatmate had no idea of the danger that was posed upon him.

_Speaking of danger._

"You had miscalculated your bomb," Sherlock said, "you should be more careful with time bombs next time, they leave some nasty collateral damage."

"Wrong," Irene said, and Sherlock furrowed his brow as the word got stuck in his mind. _Wrong? How could he be wrong about this? It was obvious._

"It wasn't a time bomb," Irene smirked, "it was a heat-sensitive bomb. I had conveniently turned up the thermostat, and it was only a matter of time."

"Of course. Stupid. _Stupid_," Sherlock grinded his teeth, irritated because he hadn't been able to connect the perfectly clear dots.

"It was worth the risk. I've always preferred heat, like I said, it's more me. I knew you'd understand my hints."

"You couldn't be certain about that," Sherlock said, "you could've gotten us both killed."

"But I didn't," Irene said, sounding slightly triumphant.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock replied, and they both fell silent once again.

"Sherlock," Irene said after a while, a strange kind of melancholia sounding through in her voice, "you said I couldn't be certain, and yet I was, and you knew I wasn't feeling any doubt. You know me better than you think you do. You know," she continued, "I've tried to change but I'm still the same."

He shook his head, knowing what she meant, she was hinting at a certain type of sentiment that was still clouding her brain. It explained why she had done all this, why she would be stupid (or was it clever?) enough to get herself into mortal danger just so he wouldn't be bored.

"Why are you saying that?" he asked.

"Because it's true, " she said, and she laid her hand on his for the shortest of moments, then pulled it back when she felt his fingers moving under hers, as though that gesture had made it too real.

"You haven't learned a thing, have you?" he said, and Irene shrugged in response. She stayed silent for a while, and then stared down at her watch.

"I believe the nurse is on her round and is about to enter this room, which means I'll leave now," she said, "no offense, but I don't wish to see your bloody bandages."

Sherlock didn't ask her when she was going to be back, if she would be back at all. He didn't tell her goodbye, he just sat there and stared, feeling glad that she had come out of this alive, then reminded himself that sentiment was definitely a weakness and he shut his brain off for similar thoughts.

He followed her movements with his eyes as she got to her feet gracefully, making sure she wasn't using her wrist. He could see that she was hiding how much it actually hurt, and she hadn't complained about it because she knew he was in a worse state than her.

Irene headed for the door quickly, her novel grasped in her hand, and had exited the room before he could blink.

A couple of seconds after she had left, a young nurse with dark blonde hair entered the room. Sherlock figured she had only just graduated from medical school and was new to the job. Her name tag told him her name was Katie, but her shoes, arms, and clothing told him details from her life story.

"Good evening, mister Holmes, I'm going to change your bandages," she said, scribbling something on the board at the foot of his bed.

"There was a woman here a moment ago" Sherlock said, "she left the room, could you please look in which direction she headed?"

The nurse stopped writing, and raised her eyebrows, "what woman?"

" You're a nurse, I expect a certain degree of intelligence, so don't pretend to be stupid," Sherlock said, clearly irritated, "the woman who left just before you entered the room. I need to know which exit she took."

"There was no one here, sir."

Sherlock sighed deeply, his ribs protesting but he didn't wince, "you've recently broken up with your boyfriend and you've bought a cat to replace him, but the cat reminds you too much of your ex and you're living with the crippling fear that you'll be single forever, and unsuccessful at your new job because of that. Now tell me, where did the woman go?"

The young woman's cheeks colored bright red, but she if she was irritated or taken aback by Sherlock's deduction, she didn't let on.

"There was no one here, sir. No woman, no one."

"Don't you think it's a bit rude to lie to one of your patients?" Sherlock asked.

The nurse began to lose her patience, "Mister Holmes, I can assure you that I am very competent when it comes to my job, and that I do not let my personal life affect my work attitude in the slightest, and I assure you there hasn't been anyone in this room today, the woman you're speaking of has not been here."

Sherlock was genuinely confused for the first time in ages. He could not find a single trace in the woman's behavior that told him she was lying, so rational thought told him she wasn't. There hadn't been anyone in the room. He looked to the corner of the room, to the chair in which Irene had been seated only moments ago, and which had been next to his bed when she left. There was no indent in the fabric of the chair, no traces of a human being, and Sherlock furrowed his brow. He did not like this feeling of doubt that had been creeping upon him but now hit him in the face with a blow.

He was certain he wasn't delirious. He wasn't on medication, which was pretty obvious since every part of his body hurt and he wasn't plugged into an IV. He knew what it felt like to be under sedation and the side effects of medicine, and he was most definitely not having those symptoms.

Sherlock wasn't sure if she had used her real name upon entering the hospital, which meant he was possibly jeopardizing her identity, and yet he asked, "Miss Adler hasn't been here? Irene Adler?"

"I don't know anyone of that name. Are you alright?" the nurse asked, "are you feeling dizzy?"

"My eyes didn't deceive me, I know what I saw," Sherlock said, "unless someone has drugged me with something stronger than morphine, which is practically impossible because I'd see the marks on my skin and they aren't there."

The woman was examining him from head to toe, a worried look upon her face, "you're not on medication, but sometimes we imagine things we want to see most, and I know it's hard to deal with loss-"

"Loss?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," the nurse said, her voice squeaking all of a sudden, her professional attitude disappearing because she was afraid of the possible mistake she had made, "you weren't in the gas leak accident?"

"I-Yes, I was," Sherlock said, and even though he was able to read the fear on the woman's face, he couldn't exactly tell what she was scared of.

"Oh dear, has no one told you?" the nurse said and swallowed, but Sherlock already knew the direction her speech was heading, "I'm so sorry to tell you this, but there were no other survivors."


End file.
